Healing Through Food: Soul Lessons in Every Bite
How My Digestion Led Me to Grace
How My Digestion Led Me to Grace
How My Digestion Led Me to Grace
When I Fed Myself & Loved Myself
How My Digestion Led Me to Grace
How My Digestion Led Me to Grace
Journey with Plant-Based Protein
How My Digestion Led Me to Grace
Journey with Plant-Based Protein
Liquid Lessons - 18-mo challenge
How My Digestion Led Me to Grace
Journey with Plant-Based Protein
Gut Feelings: How My Digestion Led Me to Grace
Physical Symptoms as Spiritual Signals
For nearly fifteen years, I lived with persistent gastrointestinal issues that sent me in and out of doctors’ offices.
Most symptoms were chalked up to side effects from medications I’d needed at the time — a common explanation, and one I accepted without much resistance. I managed, I coped, and I carried on. But beneath the surface, my body was trying to speak.
It wasn’t until a few years ago, when my symptoms escalated to the point of requiring surgery, that I began to truly listen. That experience marked a turning point — not just physically, but spiritually.
I had to learn how to tune into my body’s signals, to interpret discomfort as guidance rather than punishment. And that listening began with food.
The Long Road to Diagnosis
The journey to a proper diagnosis was anything but linear. After both surgeries, I hoped for relief — but my symptoms persisted. Weight loss, bloating, cramping, fatigue, and unpredictable digestion became daily companions.
I cycled between chronic diarrhea and constipation, often without warning or clear cause. I kept searching, undergoing tests, trying elimination diets, and tracking symptoms with meticulous care.
Eventually, I was diagnosed with primary hyperparathyroidism and thyroid disease — both of which explained many of my symptoms. These conditions can disrupt calcium regulation, metabolism, and gut motility, and they certainly contributed to the physical distress I’d been experiencing. For a while, I thought I had found the answer.
But even then, something still didn’t add up.
Certain foods triggered reactions that didn’t align with what I’d been told. I was still experiencing intense digestive symptoms — especially the alternating diarrhea and constipation — that couldn’t be explained by my endocrine diagnoses alone.
It took nearly two more years of continued investigation, self-advocacy, and intuitive listening to uncover the deeper root: sucrose intolerance.
What Is Sucrose Intolerance?
Sucrose intolerance, also known as Congenital Sucrase-Isomaltase Deficiency (CSID), is a rare digestive disorder where the body lacks the enzyme needed to break down sucrose (table sugar) and sometimes starch. Unlike lactose intolerance, which is more widely recognized, sucrose intolerance often goes undiagnosed or misdiagnosed for years.
When someone with this condition consumes sucrose, the undigested sugar ferments in the gut, leading to symptoms like:
• Bloating and gas
• Chronic diarrhea or constipation
• Abdominal pain
• Fatigue and brain fog
• Nutrient malabsorption
It’s often compared to diabetes — but instead of affecting blood sugar levels, it impacts the intestines. The result is a chronic sensitivity to sugar and starch that can dramatically affect quality of life.
When Medication Didn’t Work, My Body Became the Guide
After my diagnosis, I was prescribed Sucraid, an enzyme replacement therapy designed to help break down sucrose. For many, it’s a game-changer. But for me, it didn’t work. My symptoms persisted, and I was left with more questions than answers.
That’s when I began to rely on something far more intuitive: my body’s wisdom.
I started reducing my sugar intake to very low levels, not just avoiding sweets but also reading labels for hidden sugars in sauces, dressings, and packaged foods. I also cut back on sodium, which seemed to exacerbate bloating and water retention.
Slowly, I shifted to a diet rich in fiber and protein, focusing on whole foods that supported digestion and energy.
This wasn’t just a physical adjustment — it was emotional. I had to let go of comfort foods, social eating habits, and even some cultural norms around celebration and indulgence. But in return, I gained clarity. I began to recognize the subtle cues — the tightness in my abdomen, the emotional fog, the sudden fatigue — that told me when I’d had too much sugar.
I also learned to anticipate the digestive consequences. Depending on the food, I might experience a few days of diarrhea, followed by constipation, or vice versa. Instead of panicking, I now reset. That rhythm has become part of my healing. It’s not perfect, but it’s predictable. And that predictability brings peace.
Grace in the Gut
Sucrose intolerance is a lifelong condition. There’s no cure. But there is management — and more importantly, there is grace.
Living with this diagnosis has taught me how to honor my body’s signals, even when they’re inconvenient or misunderstood. It’s not just about restriction; it’s about relationship. I’ve come to see my digestion as a spiritual compass — one that points me toward balance, presence, and care.
There’s a kind of sacredness in this process. Every meal becomes a moment of discernment. Every symptom becomes a whisper from within. And every choice — what to eat, what to avoid, how to respond — becomes an act of self-respect.
Food is no longer something I battle. It’s something I listen to. And in that listening, I’ve found healing.
What I’ve Learned
Here are a few lessons that have helped me manage sucrose intolerance and reconnect with my body:
• Track your symptoms: Keeping a food and symptom journal helped me identify patterns and triggers.
• Read labels carefully: Sugar hides in unexpected places — sauces, dressings, even “healthy” snacks.
• Don’t rely solely on medication: If enzyme therapy doesn’t work for you, dietary changes can still offer relief.
• Honor your emotional response: Food is deeply tied to comfort, culture, and identity. Give yourself space to grieve and adapt.
• Trust your body’s wisdom: Your symptoms are not betrayals — they’re messages. Learn to interpret them with compassion.
Closing Reflection
Healing isn’t always about fixing what’s broken. Sometimes, it’s about learning to live in harmony with what is. My digestion may never be perfect, but it has become a teacher — one that speaks in discomfort, clarity, and grace.
And in learning to listen, I’ve found something deeper than relief. I’ve found resilience.
Written by Heather Allen
Founder of Soul Life Lessons
Symbolist • Storyteller • Advocate for Inner Growth
When I Fed Myself Like I Loved Myself
Reclaiming Nourishment as Self-Care
The Wake-Up Call
A few years ago, I reached a turning point in my health journey. After undergoing my first surgery, I expected some relief — but it didn’t come. Instead, I found myself stuck in a cycle of tests, waiting rooms, and unanswered questions. I was exhausted, physically and emotionally.
To manage my symptoms, I was placed on a liquid diet. At first, I followed the plan: cream-based soups, broths, and meal replacements. But after four months, I hit a wall. I was tired of feeling disconnected from food and from myself. I knew something had to change.
For years, even with chronic GI issues, my eating habits were far from ideal. I relied on convenience foods — high in sugar, sodium, and fat, low in fiber and nutrients. If it could be microwaved, I ate it. I didn’t realize how much this was contributing to my symptoms until my body forced me to pay attention.
That first surgery was a wake-up call. It pushed me to reevaluate not just what I was eating, but how I was approaching nourishment altogether.
Rethinking Nutrition
I started small. Sugar seemed to be a major trigger, so I cut back. I also reduced sodium, which helped with bloating and inflammation. These changes didn’t solve everything overnight, but they gave me a starting point — a sense of agency in a situation that had felt out of my control.
At the time, I was still limited to liquids, which made things tricky. I needed to find a way to eat that was both gentle on my system and nutritionally supportive. That’s when I discovered the Ninja — a high-powered blender that quickly became my most important kitchen tool.
Finding a System That Worked
The Ninja allowed me to prepare meals that were tailored to my needs. I chose it over a juicer because I wanted to retain fiber and whole-food nutrients.
It also had a food processor attachment I hoped to use down the line, but what mattered most was its capacity. I could make 64 ounces of food at once — enough for 4-5 days — which was a huge help during periods of low energy and physical immobility.
I began experimenting with ingredients. For dinner, I blended beans for protein, whole wheat pasta or rice for grains, and added vegetables and nuts for texture and nutrition. For breakfast, I used fruits, yogurt, whole grain cereal, and peanut butter. These meals were simple, but they were balanced and satisfying. They helped stabilize my digestion and gave me a sense of progress.
Having a system that worked made a big difference. I wasn’t just reacting to symptoms anymore — I was proactively supporting my body. And that shift in mindset was just as important as the food itself.
Building Consistency: Nourishment as Self-Love
Meal prep became part of my routine. It gave structure to my days and helped me stay consistent with my nutrition goals. I could plan ahead, batch meals, and avoid the stress of figuring out what to eat when I was already feeling unwell.
It also supported my physical recovery. Standing at the counter, chopping ingredients, and moving around the kitchen helped me rebuild strength and mobility. These small actions added up — they reminded me that I was capable of taking care of myself, even in the midst of chronic illness.
Over time, I was able to reintroduce more solid foods. My recipes got smaller, but the habits stayed the same. I still use my Ninja regularly, and I still prioritize meals that are easy to digest, nutrient-dense, and tailored to my body’s needs.
What I Learned
This experience taught me that nourishment isn’t just about what’s on the plate — it’s about how we approach food in the context of our health. For me, that meant shifting from convenience to intention. It meant learning to listen to my body’s signals and respond with care, not frustration.
I didn’t need a perfect diet. I needed a sustainable one. One that respected my limitations while helping me feel stronger, more stable, and more in control.
Feeding myself like I loved myself wasn’t a dramatic overhaul — it was a series of small, thoughtful changes. And those changes made a lasting impact on how I manage my symptoms, how I plan my meals, and how I relate to food today.
Written by Heather Allen
Founder of Soul Life Lessons
Symbolist • Storyteller • Advocate for Inner Growth
From Deficiency to Discovery: Plant-Based Protein
My Journey with Plant-Based Protein
I never expected protein to be the missing piece. For years, I focused on eliminating foods that triggered symptoms — but I hadn’t considered what I was missing nutritionally. It wasn’t until my body began to break down that I realized healing required more than avoidance. It needed nourishment.
The Turning Point
For years, I suspected that meat was contributing to my GI symptoms. I didn’t know exactly why — I assumed it was the grease or additives. But after my first surgery, I learned that meat’s slow digestion was likely the real culprit.
Letting go of meat wasn’t hard — my body was already struggling. What was harder was figuring out how to replace the protein I was losing, especially since my doctors wanted me to double my intake due to continued weight loss.
Initially, I turned to protein replacement shakes. They seemed convenient and were marketed as complete nutrition. But my GI tract had other ideas.
I didn’t realize it at first, but not all protein drinks are created equal. There are multiple types of protein used in these formulas — whey, casein, soy, pea, and more — and my body rejected nearly all of them. Even the one brand I could tolerate, Premier Protein, had to be used in strict moderation.
I was left with a question I couldn’t ignore: How do I get enough protein without meat or shakes?
Why Protein Matters
Protein is essential for healing, energy, and overall body function. It helps build and repair tissues, supports immune health, and plays a role in hormone and enzyme production.
For people recovering from surgery or managing chronic illness, protein becomes even more critical — it’s the foundation for rebuilding strength and maintaining stability.
Without meat, I needed to rethink my sources. I began researching plant-based proteins, hoping to find options that were gentle on my digestive system but still nutritionally dense.
That’s when I discovered beans.
Discovering Beans
Before I began researching plant-based protein, I had no idea how many varieties of beans existed — or how nutritionally powerful they could be. I had always thought of beans as a side dish or something you’d find in chili, not as a primary source of protein. But once I started digging into the options, I realized I’d been overlooking one of the most versatile and nutrient-dense food groups available.
There are dozens of types of beans, each with its own texture, flavor, and nutritional profile. Some are creamy and mild, others are earthy and robust. Many are packed with fiber, iron, magnesium, and plant-based protein — all essential for healing and energy regulation.
Here are just a few I explored:
- Red lentils
- Green lentils
- Kidney beans
- Black beans
- Pinto beans
- Chickpeas
- Navy beans
- Cannellini beans
- Mung beans
- Adzuki beans
- Lima beans
- Great Northern beans
Each one offered a unique flavor profile and texture, but what excited me most was their nutritional content. They were high in protein, low in fat, rich in fiber, and naturally low in sodium — a perfect match for my dietary needs.
Nutritional Snapshot
As I explored plant-based protein options, I was amazed by how nutritionally rich beans could be. Just half a cup of cooked beans can offer a powerful combination of protein, fiber, and essential nutrients — all while being naturally low in fat and sodium.
Here’s a breakdown of some of my staples:
• Red lentils: 115 calories, 0.4g fat, 20g carbs, 1g sugar, 2mg sodium, 7.9g fiber, 9g protein
• Green lentils: 120 calories, 0.5g fat, 21g carbs, 1g sugar, 4mg sodium, 8g fiber, 9g protein
• Kidney beans: 110 calories, 0.5g fat, 20g carbs, 0.3g sugar, 2mg sodium, 6g fiber, 8g protein
• Black beans: 114 calories, 0.5g fat, 20g carbs, 0.3g sugar, 1mg sodium, 7.5g fiber, 8g protein
• Pinto beans: 122 calories, 0.6g fat, 22g carbs, 0.2g sugar, 1mg sodium, 7.7g fiber, 7.5g protein
These numbers may vary slightly depending on preparation, but the overall nutritional profile is consistent: high in protein and fiber, low in fat and sodium, and packed with slow-burning carbohydrates that support energy and digestion.
Even while on a liquid diet, I found ways to incorporate beans into blended meals. Their texture, flavor, and nutrient density made them a cornerstone of my recovery — and a reliable source of protein that my body could actually tolerate.
Making It Work
Even though I was still on a liquid diet for 18 months, I found ways to incorporate beans into my meals. I boiled them carefully, blended them into smooth soups or purees, and seasoned them with herbs that supported digestion. The preparation process became part of my healing routine — soaking, simmering, and blending with intention.
Beans gave me the protein I needed without the digestive strain of meat or processed shakes. They were versatile, affordable, and easy to batch cook. I could prepare several days’ worth of meals in one go, which was crucial during periods of low energy.
Building a Foundation
As I continued to experiment, beans became a staple in my diet. Red and green lentils were especially gentle and quick to cook. Black beans and kidney beans added richness and depth to my meals. Pinto beans offered a creamy texture that worked well in blended dishes.
These ingredients didn’t just meet my nutritional needs — they helped me feel more stable, more energized, and more confident in my ability to care for myself. I wasn’t just reacting to symptoms anymore. I was building a foundation for healing.
What I Learned
Protein isn’t just a nutrient — it’s a building block for resilience. For me, learning to nourish myself without meat was a turning point. It required research, trial and error, and a willingness to listen to my body. But it paid off.
I discovered that plant-based protein could be just as effective — and often more digestible — than traditional sources. I learned how to prepare meals that supported my GI health while still delivering the nutrients I needed. And I found a rhythm in the kitchen that helped me feel grounded and capable.
Beans may seem simple, but for me, they were the missing ingredient — the one that helped me rebuild from the inside out.
This journey didn’t just change how I eat — it changed how I care for myself. It’s why I now advocate for nutritional awareness as a path to emotional and spiritual healing. Whether you're navigating chronic illness or simply trying to reconnect with your body, protein — especially from plants — can be a powerful ally.
Written by Heather Allen
Founder of Soul Life Lessons
Symbolist • Storyteller • Advocate for Inner Growth
Liquid Lessons: 18 Month Journey on a Liquid Diet
What a Blended Diet Taught Me About Nourishment
Living on a liquid diet wasn’t just a medical necessity — it became a profound lesson in care, creativity, and trust.
The Early Overwhelm
When I was first told I’d need to follow a liquid diet, I thought it would be temporary — a few weeks of broths and shakes, maybe some blended soups. I didn’t expect it to last 18 months. I didn’t expect how much it would change me.
At first, I panicked. I was already underweight, already exhausted, already grieving the loss of foods I loved. Now I had to give up chewing, texture, and the simple pleasure of sitting down to a “real” meal.
I felt isolated, frustrated, and afraid. How would I get enough nutrients? How would I feel full? How would I stay sane?
The early days were filled with trial and error. I tried commercial protein shakes, only to find that most of them triggered my symptoms. I tried cream soups, only to discover that some were too salty and acidic for my healing gut. I cried over meals that didn’t sit well. Over the monotony of beige purées, over the loss of spontaneity and joy in eating.
Food had always been a source of comfort and creativity for me. Now it felt clinical, restricted, and lonely. I wasn’t just losing flavor — I was losing connection. And yet, somewhere in that grief, a quiet voice emerged: You can still nourish yourself. You just have to learn how.
Finding Rhythm in Prep and Ritual
Eventually, I stopped fighting the restriction and started building a rhythm around it. I learned how to soak beans overnight, simmer them gently, and blend them into smooth, digestible meals.
I discovered which herbs supported my digestion and which spices added warmth without irritation. I began to see my kitchen not as a battleground, but as a sanctuary.
The process became meditative. Soaking, blending, seasoning — each step was a small act of care. I wasn’t just feeding myself; I was tending to my healing.
I batch-cooked when I had energy, froze portions for low days, and created a rotation of meals that felt comforting and reliable. Red lentils, black beans, pinto beans with vegetables for blended purées — they became my staples, my nourishment, my lifeline.
I started to notice the beauty in simplicity. A drizzle of olive oil, a pinch of fennel, a swirl of blended carrot with ginger — these small touches made my meals feel intentional.
I wasn’t just surviving. I was creating. And in that creation, I found a rhythm that helped me feel more grounded, more capable, more connected to my body’s needs.
I lit a candle, played soft music, whispered affirmations as I stirred. These weren’t just nutritional choices — they were spiritual ones. I was reclaiming food as a source of healing, even in its most altered form.
The Emotional Impact of Not Chewing
What I didn’t expect was the emotional toll of not chewing. Chewing is grounding. It’s sensory. It’s social. Without it, meals felt clinical — something to get through, not something to enjoy. I missed crunch. I missed variety. I missed sitting at a table and feeling like part of the world.
There’s something deeply human about chewing — the way it slows us down, the way it connects us to texture and satisfaction. Without it, I felt disconnected from my body.
I often finished meals without feeling full, not because I lacked nutrients, but because I lacked the sensory cues that told me I was nourished.
I also missed sharing food. I couldn’t eat what others were eating. I couldn’t go out to restaurants. I couldn’t accept offerings from friends or family without explaining my restrictions. It made me feel separate — like I was living in a parallel reality where nourishment looked completely different.
But over time, I found new ways to connect. I invited loved ones into my kitchen. I shared my blended recipes. I talked openly about my healing process. And slowly, the isolation softened. People began to understand that my meals, though different, were still meals. They were still acts of care.
I learned to celebrate small wins — a new spice that didn’t trigger symptoms, a bean blend that felt satisfying, a moment of peace while sipping soup. These became my milestones. These became my joy.
What I Learned About Nourishment Beyond Texture
Living on a liquid diet taught me that nourishment isn’t just about what’s on the plate — or in the bowl, or the blender. It’s about intention. It’s about listening. It’s about honoring what your body can handle, even when it’s inconvenient or unglamorous.
I learned that blended meals could be beautiful. That protein could come from beans and lentils. That flavor could come from herbs and spices. That healing could come from simplicity.
I learned to trust my body’s signals — the subtle shifts in energy, the quiet feedback after each meal. I learned to slow down, to tune in, to ask: Does this feel good? Does this support me?
Most of all, I learned that nourishment is an act of love. Not just for the body, but for the spirit. Every time I prepared a meal, I was saying: I believe in my ability to heal. I trust my body’s wisdom. I am worthy of care.
This experience didn’t just change how I eat — it changed how I live. It taught me to honor my limits, to celebrate my resilience, and to find beauty in the most unexpected places.
Whether you’re navigating a liquid diet or simply trying to reconnect with your body, know this: nourishment is always possible. And sometimes, it’s the simplest meals that teach us the deepest lessons.
Written by Heather Allen
Founder of Soul Life Lessons
Symbolist • Storyteller • Advocate for Inner Growth